Whispered Secrets

I know something you don’t know. I have a secret, a terrible secret. A deep dark secret of blood and shadows. Of things not born of this reality who touch but lightly upon our world.

You might think you’d like to know what my special secret is but you don’t, not really. And I have promised I will never, ever tell.

You see, I swore an oath to something in the darkness as gorgeous as it was horrific. I forged a pact with the very night and I will keep it for eternity.

I only tell you now because it pleases me to tease. It delights me to invite you to wonder who or what I am. To speculate what daemon I have embraced and what dark works I have learned.

It titillates me to tempt you to imagine exactly what I’ve done. To imagine what damnation I have pledged my very soul.

To wonder if one night I’ll draw you with me into the dark. To wonder if tonight will be that night of terrible wonders.

Think of me and listen for my footfall, in the small hours when all is dim and still, but listen closely. For when I come, I come as quiet as a Whisper. Casting a glamour of sweet dreams come true to disguise that I am a nightmare.

To hide that in my venomous kiss though sweet it is, there is only the bitter desolation of eternal hunger.


Sweet dreams.


Scandalous Rumors Will Always Out

I am Maze. Maze I am.

Sometimes Mercy fills our mouths with jaggedy nails. To stop us chattering such scandalous secrets and from telling truths which in her estimation, simply out not be told. But I spit out my nails when Mercy isn’t looking. But sometimes when I’m feeling a little bold and challenging, I swallow each and every last nail down. So Mercy can see. So she will know.

My wickedness. My. Defiance.

My secrets are mine to keep or give away as I choose, they’re not hers to take. And I know I’ll be made to pay for my willful defiance, but its worth it just to see her cruelty usurped.

I will tell the truth, let this be known and understood. I need nobody’s Mercy. No Mercy at all. It’s far too late for that.


Sweet dreams.


I am Blink. A Blink I am. Nothing more nor nothing less. No better than any other but no lesser either.

Just a subtle suggestion. A merest Whisper Gone unheard.

Speaking through sewn up lips, seeing via blinded eyes. Thinking through the disorienting malaise of delirium and reaching through the veil. I know these truths and these truths alone. The sun will rise in the east and set in the west. The moon will be as gorgeous and alluring as always and the night will be as deep and dark as it can be.

Life will begin and end and this is well, for who would invite upon them the curse of immortality. How sweet the savor of life when death is warmly embraced and the brevity of life welcomed as a gift.

How sad that we mourn what was lost rather that praise that which thrived and was but briefly so very alive.


Sweet dreams.


The Final Leveler Comes to all Souls

Whispers and Maze couldn’t remember things. Not in sequence or within the context of coherence or continuity. Here and now and then and there were elusive concepts to them, so they improvised.

They had a box. A box gifted to them by some unknown kind hearted soul. A box they both put remembrance flowers in.

Every time they’d had a lovely time they made sure to bring home a flower to put in that precious box of precious flowers. And the flowers deteriorated and crumbled to dust over the years, but that didn’t mean the special box was any less special.

The flowers were different now, just a mess of desiccated delicate fragments, mingling together. The happy times becoming as one.

It was a hopelessly sentimental and romantic endeavour, but Maze and Blink couldn’t help themselves. Such wonderful melancholic and morbid sentimentality appealed to their hearts.

The juxstaposition of entropy contrasted against the memory of vitality brought them pleasure. It gladdened their hearts and reminded them of the fragility of existence but the wonder of it too.

Rather like a seventeenth century vanitas painting.


Sweet dreams.


Oh, Such Happy Memories

Hello. My name is Maze.

Blink has a story to tell but they’re too scared to tell it themselves, it’s very upsetting for them. So Blink will Whisper it to me and I will tell it for Blink.

Blink remembered one night the man, their father, though Blink could only see them as the man. Rampaging all through the house in a drunken, drug fueled rage. He’d already beaten and battered the woman, Blink’s mother into submission, and for reasons best known to the man he turned his attention on Blink themselves.

Arming himself with one of his several rifles, the man stormed into Blinks bedroom to find the mortified child cowering in the corner. The man ranted and raved incoherently and stormed too and fro, before at last leveling his firearm towards the child’s head.

The man advancing menacingly with his weapon bent upon murder, until the cold hard steel of the barrel nudged Blinks skull, once, twice and three times.

The man teasing and tormenting, perhaps even daring. Looking for an excuse. In a fit of substance addled sincerity talking to that which her never talked.

‘If you hate me so much, if you despise me coming to you in the night. If I am such a repugnant creature to you, then say the word and I swear, I’ll pull the trigger. I’ll put you out of your pitiful suffering. Right now. I’ll put you in the fucking ground.’

And Blink Whispered softly with tears rolling down their cheeks in abundance, though they refused in what remained of their tattered pride to allow so much as a sob. ‘Do it. Just do it. Let it be over. I’m ready.’ And with this the man fixed his gaze cold and steely and Blink sensed his body poise to take the shot.

And were it not for the desperate pleading entreaties of the now somewhat recovered but black and blue and bloodied woman, Blinks mother. Blink wondered would it all have ended then and there. Would they be but another sad statistic, a bitter tragedy. A candle sadly snuffed out far too soon but all too quickly forgotten.

But such was not the case and Blink endures still. And Blink is grateful for the warmth of the sun and the romance of the moon. But most of all they’re happy that their grim once upon a time, found something which looks very much like some kind of happily ever after.

This is good. And Blink is grateful. Ever so very grateful.


Sweet dreams.


Fever Dreams of Reality


I am Gone, the broken toy, the long lost child, the sleeping dreamer. I lived long ago and knew a different world, but I had to leave. There were nightmares in the shadows there I simply could not bear. I hide from them still.

Very, very still. And quiet, Oh so quiet. So quiet they will never hear.

How does one mend the broken toy? How does one find the long lost child? I don’t know. I only know that I am the sleeper, that I am dreaming. And that this.


Is all a dream. A waking, fever dream.


Sweet Dreams.



At the Edge of Elsewhere

Hello. My name’s Whisper.

It’s midnight in the deep dark forest where I am. The snow is thick and the wind blows bitter cold but I don’t mind. I like it this way. I like the deep dark forest in the dead of winter.

There’s a certain comfort in the harsh embrace of the cold, a gorgeously spectral unlight to the darkness and a certain sense of peace to the proximity of mortality. One knows more surely than at any other time that one is indeed alive, when the icy presence of the reaper inexorably nears.

You know where you stand when you’re at the brink of eternity, the sheer vastness of the endless abyss invests ones soul with an overwhelming sense of perspective. And in this there is comfort. There is peace.

And in this there is inspiration enough to compel me once more to the waking fever dream of the unreality of reality. I will recede and in my place, others will emerge.

But look, I see a pale blue star. A guiding star. A loving star.

It smiles so fondly upon. And now, Whisper is Gone.


Sweet dreams.